


hot summer day

by lameafpun



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Fingerfucking, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hand Jobs, M/M, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:22:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26766478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lameafpun/pseuds/lameafpun
Summary: Arthur's cot is far too small for two people and most of the time you end up more or less on top of each other or halfway off the tiny thing entirely.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader
Kudos: 87





	hot summer day

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
> 
> *horny cowboy noises*

_It’s a flash of cornflower blue and ruddy, roughened, sun burnt peach that swirl around your dreams — two repeat visitors. Usually they stay formless. It’s only the swooping feeling deep in your stomach that tell you something is different this time; the colors vanish, leaving only the faintest impression of blue, and the palest imitation of sensation takes over. A heavy presence materializes by your side, bringing with it a heat that seeps through your thin night shirt. Somehow it’s comforting despite the fact you’re in the depths of summer and have been sweating your skin off with the rest of the camp. You want to get closer._

_Sighing, you reach and grab and hold it. Scent washes over you; horses and gunpowder and charcoal. Also, oddly, stew._

_The surging longing bowls you over, the embers that had been burning low in your stomach erupting into a forest fire’s worth of flames. Your breath quickens. You can feel each beat of your heart in the rushing in your ears._

_Longing sharpens into plain want. You_ want _, so_ badly _._

_‘Give me anything you want to give’ would have worked, as would have the plainer ‘let me please you.’ Practiced phrases. They trip on their way off your tongue._

_“Please. Please, please, please.” It’s all you have the mind to ask in the end._

_A chuckle that echoes in your bones, low and roughened with sleep, brushes over the shell of your ear, sending goosebumps across the canvas of your skin. If wanting something so bad could kill you . . ._

_“_ Darlin’ _.” Heavy warmth settles on your stomach, holding you down in a practiced kind of way that puzzles you. “_ You must be havin’ a real interestin dream.”

_What?_

What?

Your eyes snap open. It doesn’t make that much of a difference; it’s dark still and you can only just barely make out the canvas ceiling of the tent. The heavy warmth on your stomach you could feel in your dream is still there, which is confusing enough, but then you take a breath and the scent of horses, sweat, and stew flood your nose.

The _want_ you lost in the process of being thrown unceremoniously from your dream rekindles.

“Mm wha talkin bout?”

You’re flopped on your back like a starfish. On one side, your arm and leg hang off the cot and on the other your arm is trapped between your side and a familiar shape, your leg pressed underneath what feels like another leg. Your head is cushioned — not on a pillow, but something firm you can feel moving beneath your head. An arm.

The weight on your stomach shifts, bringing with its movement the realization that it was a hand. Gently, circles are drawn on the soft skin just underneath your belly button.

A breeze sweeps through the tent. It is then you remember you’d gone to bed with no drawers. The hem of Arthur’s shirt brushed just above your knees, long enough considering the only person who ever saw you in them was the former owner himself, but in sleep it had been hiked up to your midsection. Despite that, the touch feels innocent. More about closeness and less about whatever scandalous thoughts you have in your head.

He brushes another circle against your skin and deja vu hits you at the same time as the mindless want. Each brush of his fingertips sends a shiver up your spine. It’s overwhelming and you can’t hold back the way your hips jerk.

“Arthur.” It’s a greeting and a plead all in one, a bit more obvious than you’d like it to be. The touches stop. “G - G’morning.”

He starts to spread his fingers, hand flexing against your skin. His pinky brushes against the wiry hair at the apex of your thighs easily.

You swallow. These casual displays — reminders, you suppose — of Arthur’s size compared to your own had a certain kind of undeniable appeal you revel in.

“Mornin’.” His pinky lingers, curls lightly into skin. “Nice dream?”

“Wonderful.” You turn and stretch to press a kiss to his lips, dragging up the hand that had been dangling off the cot to cup his scruffy cheek. It’s an awkward, eclectic mix of limbs, but you relax into the kiss with a sigh. You try to turn onto your side, to angle yourself better to press more kisses to his exposed skin, but his hand keeps you pressed against the cot — you couldn’t get up even if you wanted. It turns your heart to mush. “You sleep okay?”

He shrugs as best as he can with you smushed into him.

“Bad watch shift?” You murmur the question in between peppering small kisses wherever you can reach. Most of your attention ends up being dedicated toward the area around his collarbones and the hair there tickles your face.

“Had to take Bill’s.” He mumbles as his fingers dip a hair lower. Sleep has only intensified the usual rough twang of his voice and the sound of it, the way it made his chest rumble beside you, washes over you.

“He still - “ His fingers leave trails of lightning on your body and you can’t hold back the way you gasp into his skin. “Arthur!”

“Yeah?”

“You — “ Your words devolve into a moan you mostly manage to stifle. When you tilt your head to look at him, his eyes are lidded with a mix of fatigue and something darker, but it’s the former that concerns you. One hand darts down to his, to cover it with your own. “You should be sleeping, cowboy.”

“‘M awake.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Won’t take long.”

“Aren’t you getting a little big headed, c - “

The endearment sticks in your throat. What comes out instead is:

“Oh _god_.”

The combination of the dream and his touches had left you wet enough to be embarrassing and his fingers slide in without much trouble. They’re thick, rough with callouses, and drag against your walls — a sweet torture he drags out. Losing yourself in the sensation would have been easy — has been easy — but his thin union suit does nothing in terms of cover; you can feel every ridge and vein pressed against your side.

“Nah.”

You can hear the smirk in his voice and the way he chokes on it, can feel the way his fingers slow inside you, when you unbutton the bottom buttons of his union suit and drag a finger up the underside of his cock. It throbs underneath your fingers as you trace over veins, pressing into spots where you know he’s sensitive. A low groan is torn out of his throat and he thrusts shallowly into your hand.

“Won’t take long.”

He adds a finger. Curls it.

Sweat drips down the back of your neck.

That didn’t feel fair.

When you shift to pump him more insistently, your arms bump. When you thumb at the slit on the head of his cock and smile at the precum that leaks against your hip he rolls back slightly to let your arm move a little more freely. His muscles tense. In retaliation he uses his own thumb to swipe over the top of your center. It’s a constant one-upmanship. You to twist your wrist, made easy by his precum, and he scissors his fingers.

It’s a struggle to not fall. Instead you desperately grind against his hand as he does the same to yours, fucking into your fist hard enough to shake the cot (in the back of your mind you thank whoever made the thing sturdy enough to not squeak under any amount of pressure).

You’re taut as a bow string — your stomach and thighs burn from trying to push your hips more insistently into his hand. Your toes are curled against the edge of the cot, one foot planted on the wood frame and the other half hanging off the cloth.

“Arthur —“ You gasp, trembling, and then your thighs snap together and Arthur lets you grind into his hand. His fingers don’t stop moving though — neither do yours — and he strokes you through your orgasm. Every pulse he can feel around his fingers is reciprocated by a twitch of his cock and he’s coming too, painting the skin of your hip white.

Later, after getting cleaned up and birdsong is filtering through the canvas along with the first hints of sunrise, he curls back up on the cot with you in his arms.

“What were you dreamin about anyway?”

Night has fallen behind, but sleep is pulling you under. Through half lidded eyes, you smile up at Arthur.

“You.”

He flushes.


End file.
